28. American Girl
American Girl
Arden
F or now, Charlotte appears blissfully unaware that the entire ballroom has turned to watch her.
She’s gorgeous, unique enough to draw attention, and no one has a clue who she is or who she’s wearing.
The rest of the furor is because they recognize me, despite the mask, and I haven’t had a woman on my arm in more than six years.
Mother smiles graciously when she reaches us and extends both hands. “I’m pleased to see you, Arden.”
This is the same greeting we’ve shared since I went away to school as a child. It doesn’t matter if it’s been one day or two months.
I dip my head in a brief bow and squeeze her hands. “And I, you, Mother. May I introduce you to Charlotte? You’ll forgive the lack of last name, I hope. Charlotte, my mother, Rose Sterling McRae.”
Mother turns, pleasantly composed. “Arden speaks very highly of you. I’m pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m glad to meet you too. This party is—” Charlotte shakes her head and looks around in wonder before returning her attention to the woman in front of her. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Mother darts a glance my way before smiling back at Charlotte. “How charmingly unjaded you are. You may call me Rose. Your gown is lovely. I don’t recognize the designer.”
“She’s a secret. I’m hoarding her for myself,” Charlotte says with a wink.
Mother smiles. “Well done, my dear.”
Dad joins us, reaching out to shake my hand. “Arden.”
“May I introduce Charlotte? Charlotte, my father Arden McRae II.”
Dad turns to her with one of his signature charming smiles and offers his hand. When she takes it, he places his other hand on top in his version of enthusiasm. “I’m glad you could join us tonight.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to meet you.”
He steps back and glances at Mother. “You’ve abandoned your mask already? This is a new record for you.”
“I couldn’t see clearly while I was hiding behind it.” She shrugs. “Who’s going to tell me I have to wear it?”
“Absolutely no one. They wouldn’t dare,” Dad says.
This, formal as it is, is what constitutes flirtation between my parents. Charlotte once mentioned her mother occasionally sits on her father’s lap. Imagining my mother perching herself on Dad’s knees as the ballroom teems around us has me suppressing a grin.
A waltz begins, and I turn to Charlotte. “May I have this dance?”
She glances to where couples twirl on the dance floor, and a flush colors her chest, working its way up. She wets her lips, glances at my parents, then back at me and gives an infinitesimal shake of her head.
Mother waves us on. “Don’t stay here for us. Dance. Mingle.”
Charlotte’s lips curve, and she nods.
We step out onto the dance floor, and I place a hand on her waist and wait for her to take position.
“I don’t know this dance. Are they all like this?” she whispers.
I shake my head. “Mother likes a little pomp and circumstance here and there. I’ll teach you to waltz. Follow my lead. It gives me an excuse to hold you close.”
She moves her clutch to her left hand, then rests it on my shoulder and places her other hand in mine.
I smile down at her. She’s here. In my arms and my world, with diamonds on her shoes. If she enjoys herself enough, she may decide it’s worth coming back for more. “We’ll make a box with our feet. I’ll count.”
She fumbles a few times, then catches on quickly. My face aches from smiling. As the song is nearly drawing to a close, she trips on my feet. I clamp my arm around her waist, pick her up, and spin her in a circle, her gown flaring with the movement.
She laughs up into my eyes. When the music ends, I kiss her. It isn’t carnal or overtly sexual, but it isn’t fleeting either. It’s a claim.
It’ll cause gossip, but if people want to say I’ve lost my head, let them.
When we step off the dance floor for refreshments, well-dressed masked men, and some women, swarm her.
No one asks for introductions. That’s part of the fun of masquerade. But several try to guess her identity.
“What is your accent? I can’t quite place it. Is it Pittsburgh?” a woman wearing a silver gown asks.
I hand Charlotte a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Charlotte takes a single sip, then distractedly sets it on a nearby table. “No.”
“Did you attend Columbia? You look familiar,” a dark-haired man says.
He appears to be in his mid-twenties, so approximately the same age as Charlotte. I assumed the mask would do an adequate job of hiding her identity, but Charlotte attended an Ivy League college in this city.
She smiles and shakes her head. “I’m not giving out hints. That’s cheating.”
His gaze trails down her body, then back up again. “Lady in Red. I know you.”
“I truly don’t think we’ve met,” she says with a laugh.
He purses his lips. “It’ll come back to me.”
Her grip on my arm tightens.
“If you’ll excuse us. It’s time to refill my glass,” I say.
I lead Charlotte away from the group. When we’re out of earshot, she groans. “How would someone recognize me? Half my face is covered?”
“He’s fishing. Did you recognize him?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
After we dance again, I flag a waiter when Charlotte requests a glass of water with lemon.
Then it starts all over again. I’ve never been uncomfortable at social events. Small talk is easy. Except for some notable exceptions, I’ve never found parties particularly taxing.
I’ve also never had a woman I wanted to hoard for myself.
Charlotte smiles and makes an excuse to turn down yet another offer to dance with an overly persistent stranger, her discomfort obvious. Slow fury builds inside me.
I’ve never been the jealous type. If I had been, my marriage to Ariana would have destroyed me.
But one more blatant attempt to steal my girl, and I’m fucking somebody up. I’ve never made a public scene in my life, but I’m ready, willing, and able tonight.
“If you get tired of McRae and want to have some real fun, I have something going on at my penthouse after this.” Ethan Jamison grins at Charlotte, then winks at me as if it’s a joke.
Ariana always laughed at his antics, and I rolled my eyes. Tonight, I’m going to plow my fist through his face.
“I’m good. Thanks,” Charlotte says dryly.
She's already refused a cocktail he’s attempted to ply her with three separate times.
Ethan snorts and stares at her cleavage. “I’ll bet you are.”
I don’t register that I’ve touched him until his lapel is in my fist, and I’ve shoved him away from her. “Back off, asshole,” I growl.
He shrugs his shoulders and smooths down his jacket. “You need another drink, McRae. I don’t remember you being so possessive . . .” When I fucked your wife is the part he leaves unspoken.
My marriage was a business contract. I didn’t care who she slept with as long as she was discreet and sober. Neither of those was the case with Jamison.
“I suppose someone who views women as toys, rather than human beings, would also struggle with basic vocabulary. It’s not possession. It’s showing her the respect she deserves. Harass her again—Speak to her like that one more time—and I’ll make you regret that you were born.”
Someone places a hand on my arm. I glance over to meet my mother’s pinched expression.
“Arden,” she says in a warning tone. Not another word leaves her lips, but the message is clear. De-escalate this scene. Now.
Jamison licks his bottom lip. “You don’t want to be respected. You want someone who knows what to do with that fat ass,” he says to Charlotte as he trails his fingers over her shoulder, following the path of a silk strap.
I lunge.